


Heat

by bittergreens



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Biting, Bottom Sherlock, Explicit Sexual Content, Hot Weather, Let's Write Sherlock, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Popsicles, Rimming, Rough Sex, Sherlock is a Brat, Smut, Sweat, Top John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-02
Updated: 2013-07-02
Packaged: 2017-12-16 20:15:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,334
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/866169
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bittergreens/pseuds/bittergreens
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock hates the heat. John attempts to make him feel better in the only way he knows how. This is pure smut.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Heat

**Author's Note:**

> I originally wrote this for the Let’s Write Sherlock Challenge 1 but didn’t finish it in time. Whoops! It’s a companion piece of sorts to my story Ennui. Also, written in celebration of summer, my favorite season!
> 
> Special thanks to A Study in Purple for her awesome beta-ing skills! :)

“Well,” John said brightly, as the cab pulled to a stop outside 221B. “That could have gone worse.”

Sherlock didn’t respond. He threw himself out of the taxi in a blur of disheveled suit jacket and irritation while John scooted forward to pay the driver.

The sidewalk outside Speedy’s was shimmering with heat. When John exited the cab he felt it crash over him like a wave. Within seconds, his forehead was drenched in sweat.

He hesitated on the front step, digging in his pocket for his keys, the glare of the afternoon sun nearly blinding him, as Sherlock loomed behind him like a small, ill-mannered thundercloud. 

He stepped aside to let Sherlock stride past him as soon as he opened the door, in an attempt to avoid the inevitable door-slam, but Sherlock whirled around behind him to grab the knob, and slammed it with such force that John saw dust shake loose from the ceiling as it crashed closed. 

Sherlock turned to John, his expression furious. “It was a disaster,” he bit out, before spinning around and violently making his way up the stairs.

John followed Sherlock, much more quietly, and watched Sherlock kick the door of the flat open with the heel of his boot.

It had been a disaster, but to be fair, it hadn’t been Sherlock’s fault. Well, not exactly. All the odds had been against him. They’d been called to the case in the middle of the worst heat wave in modern memory. Apparently the raging temperatures and sweltering humidity had already broken every possible record for hot summers in the past. And it had been going on for nearly a week.

Sherlock had already been out of his mind with boredom due to a summer-lull in interesting clients and then the heat struck and the boredom had rapidly turned to heat-induced madness.

John didn’t mind the heat. In fact, he preferred it. He’d always found London too cold and damp for his taste. Give him a really baking hot day in the sun and he was a happy man. His predilection toward the heat in combination with his months spent in Afghanistan had conditioned him to tolerate extremely high temperatures.

Sherlock, on the other hand, hated the heat. He languished. It made his dark curls go limp and cling to his neck, and his sharp cheekbones flush with color. Somehow he was capable of acquiring a sunburn mere minutes after stepping outside. He became more violent and irritable than ever (which was saying something). He had no patience for his body’s need to slow down in order to cope, and he grew steadily more enraged at what he regarded as its inability to function properly. 

He had spent the better part of the week lying on the sofa with an arm thrown over his eyes, sweating through his dressing gown, alternately cursing the existence of the sun and John for managing to remain so unaffected in the midst of what Sherlock considered a crisis.

Since Sherlock had refused to move from the sofa, John had quickly been forced to surrender the living room as an occupied territory. If he was within sight of Sherlock then he was liable to be accused of something.

“Stop moving back and forth! It’s making me hot just looking at you!”

John found he didn’t want to spend much time in there anyway since Sherlock had pulled all the curtains shut and refused to open them again, despite John’s assurance that at least having access to the open windows would create some degree of air flow, however minor. That had earned him a long tirade in which Sherlock attested that if he so much as caught sight of the sun he would be compelled to burn down the flat in a fit of rage.

That was the point at which John gave up on the living room.

In the midst of what felt like the hottest afternoon yet Lestrade texted Sherlock about a case. John had just returned from a lunch with Stamford and even he was beginning to feel the effects of the heat. By the time he’d climbed the stairs to their flat, his shirt was soaked through with sweat and clinging unpleasantly to his back.

While passing through Sherlock’s vampire den on his way to the kitchen (that’s what John had taken to calling it in his head), he had heard the sound of Sherlock’s text alert followed by the distinct sounds of Sherlock peeling himself off the leather sofa. In which case John should not have been as alarmed as he was when Sherlock materialized in the doorway like an apparition, his voice hoarse with excitement.

“John,” he croaked, causing John to spill beer all over himself in his surprise. Sherlock’s pale face and dark eyes were ghoulish in contrast with the shadowed living room behind him. “Case.”

And that’s how they’d ended up in the middle of a car park on the hottest day of the summer, standing over a body as Sherlock prowled around it, sweat shining on his temples and a mad gleam in his eye, the cause of which was either the excitement of the case or the part of his brain that John was already convinced had been irreparably compromised by the heat.

He and Lestrade stood sweating nearby.

“What I don’t understand is how anyone could bring themselves to exert the energy it would take to murder someone in this weather,” Lestrade said, pressing a soaked handkerchief to his brow. 

“I don’t know,” John said, eying Sherlock and thinking about how badly he’d wanted to strangle him that morning when he’d complained that John had _looked_ too cool and insisted he make himself at least appear miserable for Sherlock’s sake. “Sometimes the murderous impulse is too strong to suppress regardless of atmospheric conditions.”

Lestrade threw him an inquisitive look as Sherlock made a satisfied sound and straightened up.

“Just as I suspected. The blow was administered by a blunt object roughly six centimeters in diameter, swung by the assailant to catch the victim on the back of the head. Obviously, he turned at the last second to ward off the blow and was struck in the upper cranium, crushing the left side of the skull and causing immediate hemorrhage and death. Judging by the sight of impact, the object in question was most likely something dense and metallic. Possibly a piece of metal piping.”

Anderson cleared his throat loudly. Nobody looked at him. “It was a golf club,” he said matter-of-factly. “He was killed in a crime of passion—done in by his opponent in a fit of rage.”

Sherlock turned and leveled Anderson with a look so cold John was surprised icicles didn’t erupt on Anderson’s smug face.

“Thank you, Anderson, for that _brilliant_ piece of deductive reasoning, but I think it’s time you went home and let the grownups get back to work.”

“I’m certain of it. There’s a crazy golf course just up the road. An especially frustrating course. I should know I’ve played it myself a number of times. Often felt like I wanted to brain somebody at the end.”

Sherlock shut his eyes and John could see him visibly willing himself to keep from murdering Anderson on the spot.

“Lestrade,” Sherlock said with his eyes still closed. A trickle of sweat ran down his forehead. “Get. Him. Out of here.”

“Come on, Anderson. Let’s go wait in the patrol car until he’s finished. We can put the air conditioning on.”

“But Detective Inspector, I’m telling you—”

“Anderson, don’t argue with me,” Lestrade said, steering him away by the arm. “It’s too hot for this.”

The trouble was Anderson was right. 

After four hours of examining the victim’s car, questioning the car park attendants and mini-golf employees, and ascertaining the whereabouts of one very likely suspect, all evidence was pointing towards Anderson’s theory. However, the more evidence they collected, the more belligerently Sherlock resisted the notion, which led to several overheated hours of unnecessary investigation. 

However, when the suspect openly confessed to the murder—it was indeed a crime of passion over crazy golf—even Sherlock couldn’t pretend any longer. John had never thought he’d see the day when Anderson would be right about anything, much less correctly ascertain the motive for a case, but apparently along with the apocalyptic heat wave came Anderson’s opportunity to gain insight into the workings of the criminal mind.

Of course, as soon as he’d realized he was right, Anderson had paraded through the station telling everyone who’d listen that _he’d_ out-deduced Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock had gone deathly pale underneath his sunburn and exited the room without a word to anyone. John barely caught up with him in time to join him in the cab.

“Look, you can’t actually be upset about this. It was an idiotic motive for a murder,” John said, following Sherlock into the darkened living room. “If you think about it, it makes sense that Anderson figured it out. Only someone stupid enough to kill over mini golf would have the inclination to make that guess.”

“Don’t speak to me,” Sherlock said morosely, lowering himself down in the middle of the living room, where he lay motionless, faced pressed into the carpet. 

“Right.” 

John went into the kitchen and peered into the fridge, and then the freezer. He returned to the doorway of the living room. Sherlock hadn’t moved.

“I’m going out for a bit. Text me if you need anything.”

Sherlock’s response was muffled by the carpet. “There is nothing I could possibly need other than news of Anderson’s painful and violent death.”

“Right then. See you in a bit.”

***

John returned a little while later with several paper shopping bags under his arms. The living room was still dark but Sherlock was no longer lying in the middle of the floor. John wanted to take this as a good sign, but it was too soon yet to tell.

He went into the kitchen to unpack his shopping bags and then strode into the living room. He stood in the center of the room for a moment waiting for his eyes to adjust to the darkness and made out a pair of long legs sticking out from under the desk between the windows.

John got down on his hands and knees and crawled under the desk beside Sherlock.

Sherlock was lying on his back with his eyes closed, arms crossed over his chest.

“Hi,” John said, propping his head on his hand. “How are things?”

Sherlock answered without opening his eyes. “The events of this afternoon must be the result of one of two possibilities. Either I have been driven mad by the heat and this is all just a nightmarish hallucination, or we have entered an apocalyptic phase of history in which Anderson’s ability to correctly judge the behavior of criminals is the hallmark for the impending destruction of the world.”

John studied Sherlock’s silhouette in the darkness while he waited for him to continue. He had a frustratingly gorgeous profile. 

“Both possibilities are unacceptable to me, but clearly my fate is unavoidable. Therefore I choose to lie here and wait for either the deterioration of my mind or the collapse of modern civilization, whichever comes first.”

“Hmm,” John said. “Admirable course of action.”

John’s eyes had now fully adjusted to the dim light beneath the desk and he saw that the collar of Sherlock’s shirt was open. The groove between his collarbones was shining with sweat. John felt his mouth watering as he imagined licking it off.

“What’s this about?” John asked instead, gesturing to Sherlock’s crossed arms.

“Funerary position of the Egyptian kings,” he answered with his eyes closed. “As is only appropriate for my death.”

“Why are you still wearing all your clothes?”

Sherlock cracked an eye open and peered critically over at John. “What are you talking about?”

“You’re clearly miserable wearing all those clothes in this heat. Why haven’t you taken them off?”

Sherlock opened his other eye and his gaze narrowed. “John Watson, your motives are utterly transparent. You’re trying to distract me from my misery.” He shut both his eyes again and turned his head away. “It’s not going to work.”

“Mmm, pity.” John said. “Because I know a way to help you cool off.”

“Leave me alone, John.”

“You’re going to like it. It involves us taking all of our clothes off and me putting my mouth all over your body.”

Sherlock lifted his head to look at John. “How would that possibly cool me down? That sounds _hot_.”

“Nope, not with what I have in mind. You will emerge from the experience as cool as the corpses in St. Bart’s.”

Sherlock arched an eyebrow, clearly intrigued in spite of himself. “How?”

John sighed and rolled over onto his back. “I can’t tell you. If you really want to know there’s only one way to find out.”

“Ha! Nice try. I can’t be persuaded that easily. I could care less about your secret cooling sex ritual.”

“Suit yourself,” John said, shimmying out from under the desk and crawling to his feet. “I’ll be in your room. In case you change your mind.”

John heard a derisive snort. He crossed over into the kitchen and took a big bowl down from one of the shelves. He opened the freezer and filled the bowl with ice. Then he took out a popsicle (coconut) and peeled off the wrapper. 

He padded it into Sherlock’s room, popsicle in hand, and opened all the windows as wide as they would go. He then went from room to room collecting all the fans in the flat and set them up in front of Sherlock’s windows. He set the bowl of ice down in front of one of the fans and switched it on.

He pulled his shirt off over his head, shucked off his trousers and socks until he was in nothing but his pants, then he lay down on Sherlock’s bed and finished his popsicle. 

John was on his third popsicle when he heard the sound of footsteps in the hall and saw Sherlock's silhouette appear in the doorway.

John made no move to get up. He let his tongue glide down the side of the popsicle at a leisurely pace.

Sherlock crossed his arms over his chest. “Well. Here I am. So what is it? What’s your magical remedy?”

John looked at Sherlock over the top of his popsicle.

“If you’re simply suggesting I sit here with you eating frozen dessert products then I’d rather crawl back under the desk to die.”

John worked his tongue all the way around the circumference of the popsicle before sliding the whole of it into his mouth.

“Oh yes, very subtle, John.” Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Now I’m meant to imagine your mouth around my cock. What sexual ingenuity!”

John kept his eyes on Sherlock’s and bit off the top of the popsicle. Sherlock frowned.

John smiled sweetly up at Sherlock. “I don’t know what you’re on about. I’m just enjoying my ‘frozen dessert product’. No, what I want you to do is take off that bloody suit jacket.”

Sherlock sighed in a long-suffering way but he shrugged out of the suit jacket and hung it on a nearby chair. 

“Shirt next,” John said imperiously, licking his way down the remainder of the popsicle.

Sherlock rolled his eyes again and began undoing the buttons on his shirt, looking severely bored. His usually crisp white-button down was looking limp around the collar and the sides of the shirt were soaked through with sweat.

When Sherlock peeled the garment from his shoulders and dropped it beside himself on the floor, John saw again the sheen of sweat on Sherlock’s collarbones and a shimmer of sweat along his sternum. He made a sound of glee around the popsicle.

“Let me guess, trousers next?”

“No,” John shook his head and bit off another inch of popsicle. “Shoes and socks.”

Sherlock stooped to undo his laces and John admired the lean curve of Sherlock’s waist as he bent over, the dark curls that were stuck to the side of his neck.

Sherlock straightened up and dropped his hands to his belt buckle. He looked at John inquisitively and somehow managed to maintain his expression of resolute boredom. 

John nodded and waved his popsicle stick in approval. He watched Sherlock step out of the dark material, taking note of the lean muscles that stood out in his thighs with the movement, the narrow lines of Sherlock’s hips. 

Sherlock could pretend he was bored until he was blue in the face but John knew that Sherlock could feel the heat of his gaze and that he liked it. When Sherlock looked back up at him, thumbs hooked in the waistband of his shorts, his lashes were heavy.

He started to tug the material down his hips but John stopped him. “Don’t. Keep them on.”

He bit down on the popsicle stick, his eyes roaming freely over Sherlock’s shoulders and torso, then down over the curve of each knee. “Come here.”

Sherlock crossed over to the bed, stopping at John’s side. 

“Closer,” John said, removing the popsicle stick from his mouth. Sherlock put one knee on the mattress and John leaned in, sliding a hand around the back of Sherlock’s neck and pulling Sherlock’s mouth down to his.

He let his parted lips brush over Sherlock’s for a moment—not quite touching. He felt the heat of Sherlock’s breath against his mouth, saw Sherlock’s dark eyes up close boring into his, and just as he felt Sherlock drawing in a breath to ask him what he was doing, he licked the expanse of Sherlock’s bottom lip and then bit down on it gently with his teeth.

He felt the shudder that went through Sherlock in response and this time, he kissed him for real, tongue sinking into the wet heat of Sherlock’s mouth to stroke the length of his tongue, one hand still on the back of Sherlock’s neck to tug him closer.

Sherlock made a muffled noise of approval and lowered his other knee to the mattress so that he was leaning into John on his hands and knees. John tangled his fingers in Sherlock’s damp curls to pull his mouth still closer, tongue sliding over Sherlock’s in a slow, deliberate rhythm. 

When he felt Sherlock’s mouth become soft and pliant under his, body bearing down towards John to seek more of him, he tightened his fingers in Sherlock’s hair and tugged his mouth away. He felt Sherlock’s gasp of pain rather than heard it, and leaning back against the pillows, he let his eyes trail down the flushed skin of Sherlock’s throat and chest to where his cock was half-hard, outlined against the material of his shorts.

John grin’s was triumphant. “You’re such a pain whore.”

Sherlock’s eyes were dark. “You taste like coconut,” he said, his tone accusatory.

“And there’s something wrong with that?” John growled, seizing Sherlock by the hips and dragging him closer until he was forced to lift one leg, straddling John’s hips with his knees.

John let his hands slide up Sherlock’s sides and experienced a thrill of pleasure as his fingers rippled over the sweat on Sherlock’s ribs. He spread his hands and felt the rapid rise and fall of Sherlock’s chest beneath them as his breathing picked up. Sherlock’s skin was hot. John leaned forward and pressed his face to the sweat-slick skin of Sherlock’s belly.

“I thought you said this was supposed to cool me down,” Sherlock said in what was meant to be an irritated tone, but he sounded breathless. John could feel the vibrations of Sherlock’s voice under his cheek. He buried his nose in Sherlock’s stomach, inhaling deeply. He dragged his face down over the curve of his belly, opening his mouth so that his tongue slid wet and hot over the flushed skin. 

He heard Sherlock gasp above him and he slid his hands down Sherlock’s back to rest on his buttocks, digging his fingers into the muscled flesh. His mouth skimmed the waistband of Sherlock’s shorts before continuing down over the now prominent bulge of Sherlock’s cock. He traced the curve of it with his open mouth, hot breath pluming out around his tongue. When he reached Sherlock’s balls, he pulled them into his mouth.

Sherlock made a desperate sound, his hands coming up to grip the back of John’s head. John clenched his fingers on Sherlock’s ass and tugged him closer, sucking hard around the cotton. He could smell the sweat from Sherlock’s groin as he buried his mouth deeper and he felt his own cock twitch in response.

“John—” 

He could feel Sherlock’s legs trembling against his. He pulled back, letting his hands slide down the backs of Sherlock’s thighs, and sat back against the pillows. Sherlock’s mouth was open; his cheeks flushed dark, the cotton of his briefs obscenely drenched from John’s mouth.

John licked his lips. “That wasn’t part of it. I just needed to do that.” He pulled his legs out from under Sherlock and swatted him on the ass. “Now lie down.”

Sherlock frowned, eyes following John as he climbed from the bed and stripped off his pants. His own cock stretched taut against his belly. He stooped down by the window to pick up the bowl of ice.

Sherlock was still watching him when John turned back around. “Lie down. On your stomach.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes but he obeyed, lying on his front with his cheek pressed against the mattress. 

John stuck a piece of ice in his mouth and sucked on it meditatively before climbing onto the bed. He knelt on Sherlock’s left side where he was just out of sight then leaning down, he pressed his cold mouth to Sherlock’s side.

Sherlock gasped, his gasp turning to a sigh as John dragged his tongue over Sherlock’s ribs, his hot breath gusting over the damp skin. He kept the piece of ice tucked against his cheek, knowing that his tongue against Sherlock’s overheated skin would feel pleasantly cool. 

He let his tongue trail down over Sherlock’s ribs until the piece of ice in his mouth had completely melted. In the air from the fan he saw goose bumps rising on the flesh he had licked.

He leaned down over Sherlock and put his cold mouth down against Sherlock’s ear. “How does that feel?” 

Sherlock shifted against him and turned his face in towards John. His cheek was sticky against John’s, his breath against John’s open mouth unsteady. “I’m still hot,” he breathed.

John bit down softly on Sherlock’s lips in response and then leaned back to take another piece of ice. He took hold of Sherlock’s hand and turned it palm up, before pressing his mouth to the skin on the inside of Sherlock’s wrist. He heard Sherlock sigh at the cool pressure from his mouth and he licked the length of Sherlock’s forearm, his tongue tracing the blue of Sherlock’s veins.

John sucked hard on the skin and saw Sherlock’s eyelashes flutter. He pressed a cold kiss to the center of Sherlock’s palm. “How about now?”

He was pleased to hear the hitch in Sherlock’s voice. “That’s… that’s slightly better.”

John leaned back and reached for another piece of ice. He held it in his mouth until it melted, and then pressed his mouth to the base of Sherlock’s spine.

Sherlock’s hips bucked and this time as John lapped at the dimple there he brought his hands up to Sherlock’s shoulders and dragged his nails down Sherlock’s back. He licked the length of Sherlock’s spine, mouth pausing when he reached the back of Sherlock’s neck to suck at the sensitive skin below his hairline. 

His hands trailed down Sherlock’s ribs and he reached for another piece of ice without lifting his mouth from Sherlock’s body. 

This time he placed the ice cube directly onto Sherlock’s skin, right where his mouth had been, and watched as Sherlock hissed and tried to twist away. 

“Oh no, you don’t.” John climbed over Sherlock’s legs, settling himself down to sit on the backs of Sherlock’s thighs. “You’re staying right here.”

He kissed the skin where the ice had been and it was cool. He let his breath fan out over it and felt Sherlock shiver underneath him. John nipped lightly at the spot with his teeth and heard Sherlock gasp.

John took another piece of ice and slid it down the length of Sherlock’s spine. He shifted under John’s weight, hands clenching into fists at his sides, but John bore down on him with his hips and laved his tongue down the slick trail where the ice cube had been.

“God, do you have any idea how good you taste?” he breathed, knowing the heat of his breath would feel like torture against the sensitive skin where the ice had been. 

Sherlock’s breath was coming fast, his ribs heaving under the pressure of John’s mouth. “You want it harder, don’t you? This is agony for you because it isn’t enough.”

He trailed his hands down Sherlock’s flanks, sliding his thumbs under the elastic of Sherlock’s shorts. 

“Lucky for you,” John said, panting, as his tongue dipped once again into the groove at the base of Sherlock’s spine. “I’m feeling generous.”

He bit down on the swell of Sherlock’s hip and then sucked hard on the bruised skin as he dragged the material of Sherlock’s shorts down over his ass.

Sherlock moaned into the mattress.

“In fact,” John breathed against the base of Sherlock’s spine, “I’m going to give you something even better.”

He tugged the shorts the rest of the way down Sherlock’s legs and tossed them aside, so that Sherlock was now lying stretched out on the bed completely naked. The whole of his body glowed with sweat. “Jesus, I could eat you up.”

“That certainly would solve a lot of my problems,” Sherlock said wryly, cheek still pressed against the bed.

“Shut up.” John put his hands on Sherlock’s inner thighs and pushed them apart, kneeling between Sherlock’s spread legs. He exhaled at the sight. “Christ, you have a lovely arse.” 

“So I’ve been told.” Sherlock turned his head against the mattress so he could look smugly back at John.

Tucking another piece of ice against the inside of his cheek, John leaned down and pressed his open mouth to the sensitive skin of Sherlock’s inner thigh. He felt Sherlock tense beneath his hand as his icy tongue pressed into the heat.

His mouth traveled up and in towards the heat between Sherlock’s legs but he pulled back at the last second and moved his mouth to Sherlock’s other thigh.

He repeated the movement and then blew hot breath over the skin he had just licked, letting his mouth move up over the crease of Sherlock’s ass without touching, just blowing out a steady stream of hot air.

Sherlock’s hips rolled against the mattress, seeking friction. He dragged his clenched fists up over his head. His breathing was ragged. “John Watson, you bloody tease.”

John smiled and then licked the cleft between Sherlock’s buttocks. Sherlock made an inarticulate sound and lifted his hips in an effort to press himself closer to John’s mouth. John dug his fingers into Sherlock’s ass cheeks and then plunged his tongue deep into the heat between Sherlock’s legs.

Sherlock let out a yell. 

John pushed his tongue deeper, seeking out the entrance to Sherlock’s body, stroking when he found the wrinkled hole, pushing Sherlock’s cheeks apart to give better access to his mouth. He began to lick the sensitive place in long, slow strokes.

He saw Sherlock’s fists clench above his head at the sensation. “John—more,” he gasped. “It’s not enough.”

John slowed the movement of his tongue, fingers trailing down to scrape the inside of Sherlock’s thighs.

“John!”

Sherlock pushed himself up onto his knees and thrust back towards John’s mouth. 

John took hold of Sherlock’s hips, stilling them. He brought his hands back up to drag Sherlock’s cheeks apart and pulled back slightly, his hot breath ghosting the damp flesh. He saw the shudder that moved through Sherlock in response.

“Not until you ask nicely.”

Sherlock tried to move his hips but John dug his fingers in hard on Sherlock’s hipbones and was rewarded with Sherlock’s sharp intake of breath. His nails bit into Sherlock’s skin.

“Say please.” John’s request let loose another plume of heat against Sherlock’s parted cheeks.

Sherlock’s thighs were trembling, his head hanging down between his shoulders, the skin along his spine gleaming with sweat. “Please,” he said, his voice rough.

“That’s more like it.” 

Using his hold on Sherlock’s hips to drag him closer, John buried his mouth in the crease of Sherlock’s ass, his tongue circling the yielding flesh before sinking in deep past the first ring of muscle. 

He began to fuck Sherlock with his tongue, hands sliding down to grip the flesh of Sherlock’s thighs, holding them apart.

Sherlock pushed back against him with a keening sound.

He licked his way back up Sherlock’s spine, tasting sweat and the heady taste of Sherlock’s skin that was so distinctly his own. Burying a hand in Sherlock’s curls, he pulled his head back, biting down hard on the side of his neck.

Sherlock let out a cry.

“Do you want me to fuck you?” John ground out, bearing down against Sherlock with his hips so that Sherlock could finally feel the hot steel of his erection against the crease of his ass.

Sherlock didn’t answer. John tightened his fist in Sherlock’s hair and saw Sherlock’s eyelids flutter closed with pleasure.

“I asked you a question, Sherlock.” He pulled on Sherlock’s hair. “I said: do you want me to _fuck_ you?”

“Y-yes.” Sherlock swallowed and John licked the sweat from his throat.

“It’s only going to make you hotter,” John said, his lips sticking against Sherlock’s neck. “You’re going to be dripping with sweat by the time I’m finished with you. Dripping with sweat and your own come.”

Sherlock made a pleading noise deep in his throat.

“Can you feel that?” John asked, rolling his hips against him. “Can you feel how hard I am for you? I’m _aching_ for you, Sherlock.” He pressed his forehead against the back of Sherlock’s neck and heard his own voice shake. “God, I want you.”

Sherlock pushed back against him and John felt his erection slipping down into the crease of Sherlock’s thighs. 

“Fuck me, John,” Sherlock said, his voice breathless and so low John felt it deep in his own chest. His hands were braced against the mattress and he pushed back into John harder, rutting against him like an animal in heat.

John snarled wordlessly in response and using his hold in Sherlock’s hair, dragged Sherlock up onto his knees until he was flush against him. 

“I’m already leaking for you. Can you feel that?”

He rocked his hips against Sherlock once more before taking the slick head of his own cock in hand to coat his fingers. He kept one hand fisted in Sherlock’s hair and slid the other hand down between Sherlock’s legs to push a finger into the tight heat. 

“Don’t…” Sherlock arched against him. “Don’t bother preparing me, John. Just fuck me. I can’t stand it.” 

John pushed the finger deeper and felt Sherlock’s body convulsing around it. He imagined the feel of all that pressure on his cock and groaned softly.

“John… Don’t!” Sherlock’s voice was desperate. His neck was fully extended to accommodate the pull of John’s fist in his hair. John watched a bead of sweat glide down the length of his throat. “I need you. Now.”

“Fuck.” He pulled his finger out and released his grip in Sherlock’s hair.

Sherlock fell back onto his hands with a hard breath.

John lunged for Sherlock’s dresser, yanking open the top left drawer and pulling out the bottle of lube. His hands when he went to flip the cap were shaking.

“Roll over.” 

Sherlock obediently twisted around until he was on his back, legs parted, his cock flushed and straining against his belly.

His eyes when he looked up at John were pleading. He lifted his chin in supplication. “Hurry.”

John swore loudly and climbed back onto the bed to kneel between Sherlock’s thighs. The only time he saw this side of Sherlock—the only time he was obedient, submissive, vulnerable—was during sex. It made John’s cock so hard he was afraid for a moment he was going to come right there. He pressed his fist hard into the side of his leg and the moment passed.

“Lie all the way back.”

Sherlock did, bending his knees and placing his feet flat on the bed to give John better access.

John hooked his hands under Sherlock’s knees and dragged him closer, admiring the ease with which he could bend and manipulate Sherlock’s body. It never ceased to amaze him how flexible Sherlock’s long and supple body could be.

John squirted a generous amount of lube into his palm and then pushed his cock up into his own fist. He couldn’t help but make a sound of pleasure as he finally made contact with the intensely aroused flesh.

Sherlock was watching him with heavy-lidded eyes, his chest rising and falling rapidly with every shallow breath. He lifted his hips in invitation. His voice was a whimper. “John. Please.”

Blind with his own arousal, John positioned himself between Sherlock’s thighs until the head of his cock nudged at the entrance to Sherlock’s body. Bracing his hand on one side of Sherlock, and using the other to guide his movements, John pushed forward into the tight ring of heat.

The deliciously all-encompassing pressure on John’s cock was enough to make him want to close his eyes to focus on the feeling but he kept his eyes open to take in the expression on Sherlock’s face—his mouth falling open as John sank into him.

He stayed still for a moment, adjusting to the intensity of the feeling but before he decided to move Sherlock’s hips were snapping up to pull him deeper. He reached up to pull John down against him by the back of the neck, his lips hot on the skin of John’s throat. 

This time the command in his tone was unmistakable. “Move.”

John dropped his other hand to the bed and leaned into Sherlock with the full weight of his hips. He heard Sherlock gasp as he pushed all the way in. Sherlock dropped his head back against the mattress, his eyelids fluttering shut.

“Christ.” Sherlock groaned. “John… That’s… yes.”

It took every ounce of his self-control but John forced himself to go slow, pushing deep into Sherlock with each deliberate thrust. Sherlock’s eyes were still closed, his chest and throat flushed and shining with sweat; the hair on his forehead completely soaked. John’s arms were shaking from the effort of keeping his movements controlled and he could feel his own back running with sweat, but he wanted to make this last as long as he possibly could. He bent down and licked one of Sherlock’s nipples before sucking it into his mouth as his hips pumped forward.

Sherlock made a strangled noise and arched up against him. He felt Sherlock’s cock hot and insistent against his belly. He had opened his eyes and his expression was wild. His fingers tightened around John’s neck. “John—” he panted, his voice desperate. “It’s not… I need…”

John bent his mouth to Sherlock’s and kissed him, hard, his tongue slipping in past Sherlock’s teeth. Sherlock moaned into the kiss. He pulled away, breathless and pressed his forehead to Sherlock’s, his voice a growl. “I know.”

Reaching down, he dragged Sherlock’s legs around his waist. He felt the muscles in Sherlock’s thighs clench as he locked his legs around John’s back, pulling him deeper. When he pushed forward with his hips and heard Sherlock’s gasp, he knew he’d found it.

“ _Fuck._ ” Sherlock’s whole body stiffened against him and he rolled his hips again. “Oh _fuck_ , John.”

John groaned at the feeling of being so deeply buried in Sherlock. He could feel the blood throbbing in Sherlock’s cock where it was trapped between them. He watched a drop of sweat fall from his cheek to Sherlock’s chest and he began to move in earnest, knowing that neither of them would last long.

He fell down onto Sherlock with all of his weight and at the combined pressure inside him and against his own cock, Sherlock cried out, his hips rising to meet each of John’s thrusts, fingers slipping in the sweat on John’s neck as he struggled to pull John closer.

“Yes! Oh God, yes…”

He began to pump into Sherlock hard and fast, driving him down into the mattress. Sherlock’s legs tightened around his waist, his cock slipping in the sweat between their bodies.

“Fuck, John. Yes!”

His mouth was against Sherlock’s as he fucked him and he could hear the mounting desperation in Sherlock’s cries of pleasure as well as feel them on his tongue.

John could feel the pressure in his balls threatening his release, and his movements became unsteady, the muscles in his ass clenching as he jerked his hips. But he wanted Sherlock to come first, wanted to watch him completely come undone. Watching Sherlock come was always his favorite part.

He reached down one more time and dragged Sherlock’s legs up over his shoulders to deepen the angle of his thrusts. He rolled his hips and Sherlock shuddered and then let out a yell as John drove down against his prostate. He looked up at John, gasping, eyes unfocused, the expression on his face close to one of pain.

“Oh my g—”

John bent down and swallowed Sherlock’s exhalation of pleasure, pushing his tongue into Sherlock’s mouth as he began to fuck him as hard as he could, Sherlock’s body curling back onto itself as John bore down against him. 

Sherlock cried out but John swallowed the sound, his mouth slipping over Sherlock’s swollen lips, grazing the sensitive skin with his teeth. John felt Sherlock’s body trembling beneath him with the beginning of his orgasm, his nails biting into the skin of John’s neck as he hung on, pushing up into John’s thrusts, his calves tensing against John’s shoulders. John reached behind his neck to take Sherlock’s hands in his and push them down against the mattress over Sherlock’s head.

John pulled his mouth from Sherlock’s to kiss his way down the side of his neck and felt his own orgasm building inevitably as he pinned Sherlock to the mattress, their bodies connected at so many hot, slick points from hip to head. Sherlock was almost sobbing in his pleasure and John tightened his hands around Sherlock’s, pressing their sweating palms together as he pushed his tongue back into Sherlock’s mouth.

He drove down into Sherlock as hard as he could and felt the muscles around his cock rippling as Sherlock’s orgasm tore through him. Sherlock’s mouth fell open and he came with a shout, his body arching impossibly closer up against John as waves of pleasure slammed through him. John felt the hot sticky stream of Sherlock’s pleasure pulsing out against his belly and he pushed forward with his hips once last time, the deep convulsions of Sherlock’s body around his cock too much for him to take. The feeling of Sherlock boneless and sated beneath him coupled with the shattered look on Sherlock’s face sent John over the edge.

Light exploded behind his eyes and he was distantly aware of his own sharp cry as his body collapsed down onto Sherlock, thrusting deep into Sherlock as he came, feeling the warmth of his release pulsing out in hot bursts from his cock. 

It took him a moment to gather the strength to lift himself slightly and slide Sherlock’s calves off of his shoulders. When John pulled out he saw his own come slide sticky onto Sherlock’s thighs. His cock twitched faintly at the sight. 

Sherlock was lying with his eyes closed, chest still heaving, entire body slick with sweat, dark hair tangled and dripping into his eyes. His arms were still thrown out over his head. 

John leaned down and kissed his glistening temple.

“Hey,” he said, his voice soft. “You alright?”

“Mmm…” Sherlock made a humming noise and then turned his face in against John’s mouth, nuzzling into his neck.

John felt something in his chest clench tight and hot. Post-sex snuggling was not something that had ever happened between them before. The fact that Sherlock was acting like this now seemed too good to be true, but that wasn’t going to stop John from taking full advantage of it.

He settled himself down on the bed next to Sherlock, tucking his hips in against the side of Sherlock’s thigh, one arm sliding over the sticky expanse of Sherlock’s chest.

Sherlock turned into his embrace, face still burrowing into the skin of John’s neck.

John waited several heartbeats, feeling Sherlock’s breathing gradually begin to slow against him. When Sherlock spoke his mouth was still pressed to John’s skin. “You’re a bastard, John Watson.”

John pulled back slightly to duck his head down toward Sherlock. “What was that?”

Sherlock pulled his mouth away but he dropped one arm down to loop possessively over John’s shoulders. “You’re a bastard and a liar.”

John tucked his chin in against Sherlock’s matted curls. Despite the intensely filthy state of both their bodies, he found he had no desire whatsoever to move. The warm air from the fan felt surprisingly cool on the drying sweat on his back and shoulders. “Am I?”

Sherlock shifted closer against him, pushing one leg insistently between John’s so that they were tangled together from toe to hip. “Of course I saw right through your base motives from the beginning but that doesn’t change the fact that you’re a lying bastard.”

John let his hand trail down Sherlock’s side. “Why am I a liar?”

Sherlock reached for John’s hand, tangling their fingers together even as he lifted his head to glare into John’s eyes. “You told me this would cool me down.”

John chuckled and pressed a kiss to Sherlock’s pouting mouth. “I guess you’re right. I lied.”

“Bastard,” Sherlock said with satisfaction, kissing John back, his mouth opening soft and yielding beneath John’s.

The kiss was lazy and sweet and John leaned back after a moment, the same hot, tight feeling of joy clenching in the center of his chest. He brushed the damp forelock of Sherlock’s hair back from his eyes. Sherlock looked at him, his blue eyes warm and sleepy. 

“Tell me one thing though…” John reached behind him for the bowl of ice he’d left on the dresser. He dipped his hand into the icy water and then placed his open palm against the fading flush on Sherlock’s throat. Sherlock gasped sharply. He ducked his forehead to Sherlock’s mouth, his voice a murmur. “Haven’t I given you a reason to like the heat?”

Sherlock kissed him back, biting at his lips in answer, and John pulled back laughing. He settled his arm back around Sherlock’s shoulders, letting his cool hand trail over the small of Sherlock’s back. He felt Sherlock shiver against him and he tugged him closer.

His voice against Sherlock’s hair was sleepy. “Maybe if you’re lucky, I can show you more ways to cool down when we go clean off.” He shut his eyes. “But only if you’re lucky.”

Sherlock’s huff of disapproval was all John got in answer, but as Sherlock nudged his thigh closer between John’s and settled in against him, his free hand coming to tangle once again with John’s fingers, that was all the answer John needed.


End file.
